


Eyeliner And The Apocalypse Are Not Mutally Exclusive

by Flufflybunnypants



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, MTF Sam, Trans Rhonda Hurley, Trans Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-14
Updated: 2015-01-13
Packaged: 2018-03-07 12:15:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3173502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flufflybunnypants/pseuds/Flufflybunnypants
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam needs to tell Dean that she isn't his brother, that she isn't a he. She prays it won't go south.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The One You Trust The Most

When Dean gets back to the motel room and offers Sam a cold beer the only answer is a long contemplative look, Sam’s head cocked to the side. “Whatsamatter Sammy?”

Sam squints, then straightens. “No drinking. Yet.”

"Why?" Dean sets the beer and groceries down on the table. They don’t really have a hunt here. It was a simple salt and burn, and there aren’t any clues to where Dad’s gone. Dean pulls out a chair carelessly and collapses into it comfortably.

Sam stays on his side of the room, hands in fists at his side. “I have to show you something.”

"Okay." Dean waits, but Sam doesn’t move.

"Keep in mind," Sam inhales shakily, "I am an adult. I have a right to make my own choices. Also, if you decide to beat the crap out of me, give me a head start? Promise?"

"What’s going on?" Dean is going to start freaking the fuck out if he doesn’t get some answers.

He thinks that’s pretty justified, given that his brother just fixes him with a desperate look and repeats, “Promise?”

"I promise  _I_   _will **not**  hurt you_, Sam.”

Sam grabs his duffle and goes into the bathroom, muttering half-inaudible phrases. “No more…can’t do this…worst idea.”

Dean’s getting antsy, eyeing the beer and the bathroom door with equal intensity. When he’s just about to give in and pop open a bottle, the bathroom door opens. 

Granted, it doesn’t open very far, but it’s enough to re-focus Dean. “Sammy?”

Sam pulls the door fully open and hovers there in the doorway, trying to gauge Dean’s reaction. The bathroom is safe; stepping into the room makes it all somehow more real.

Dean’s not even sure where to start. The person who opened the door is not the Sam he knows. There’s the dress, the make-up and the disconcerting illusion of breasts. More intangibly, there’s a sweet softness to Sam, a certain vulnerability that Dean hasn’t seen in years. If Dean hadn’t lived and breathed with Sam his whole life, he’s pretty sure he wouldn’t recognize the kid in front of him. Sam’s lanky frame has turned to slender lines, and Dean’s not sure how how feels about this.

Sam’s hand drops from the door knob and covers his face. “Shit, shit, shit.” It’s breathless litany that shocks Dean into response. 

"C’mere." His tone is firm as he channels every ounce of big brother he has in him. Sam stands on the other side of the table, braced to run. "Give me five minutes, okay? Stay here." Dean stands, blocking out Sam’s white-knuckled hands as he steps outside with a pen in one hand and his cell phone in the other.

There’s a call he has to make.

When he steps back in, Sam is frantically throwing everything into his bag, his eyeliner smudged where he’s rubbed his eyes.

"Sam! What are you doing?"

"Told Dad, didn’t you?" Sam is terse. "Means I’ve got a few hours to get the hell out of Dodge."

"No, I didn’t, you ginormous moron. Sit down! Good god," Dean groans. He’s aware that he’s being a little over dramatic, but he’s equally aware that Sam understands drama queen Dean better than shell-shocked Dean. Dean waits for Sam to sit on the edge of the bed before he grabs a notepad. 

"What are you doing, Dean?"

"Taking notes. Okay, this a gender thing or a clothing thing?"

"Gender." Sam’s voice is small—he seems fascinated by his hands where they lie in his lap—and Dean has to press forward through his instincts or lose this opportunity.

"So you identify as…?"

"Female. ‘m still technically straight if that makes it easier for you."

"What do you want to be called?" 

"What?" Sam’s head lifts.

"What pronouns do you want people to use when they refer to you? Should I introduce you as my sister Samantha?"

"Don’t tease, Dean," Sam says, voice all broken and bleeding.

"I’m not," Dean says, practically dripping sincerity as he tries to catch his brother’s eyes. "What do you want?"

"You’re serious?"

"I don’t take notes for anyone. I don’t do research for anyone either." That gets a small smile, the truth of that resonating with Sam.

"Then…you won’t tell Dad? Or kill me?"

"Fuck, Sam. You were right, you know. You’re an adult. You don’t  **have**  to tell anyone. If you decide to tell Dad, I’m right there with you. You don’t, and I keep your secret forever. I’m glad you told me, dumbass. Now answer the question. Taking notes is hard.”

Sam smiles for real, tears in his eyes.  ”I…thank you.”

"Less chick flick," Dean growls gruffly. "Pronouns."

"Female pronouns? Like, can you use she, her, etc.? I don’t want to change my name. I mean, I’ve never used Samuel anyway. Sam still works. I guess I’m okay with being your, uh, little sister?"

"Do you want, um," Dean checks his palm, "genital reconstruction?"

"I don’t know." Sam sounds uncomfortable. "It’s a huge thing, and it’s really expensive and I never thought it would ever be possible."

"Alright. We can save that question for later." Dean jots his notes down in a messy list, questions scrawled around the border. "I am going to ban a few things. No jewelry. No necklaces, no earrings, no bracelets. It’s too dangerous with the amount of hand-to hand fighting we do." Sam nods.

"You can’t wear dresses—"

"Dean," Sam protests softly.

"—until I think you can fight in them. You’re going to need shorter, pleated skirts with shorts underneath or skirts with long slits on both sides. I’m sure we can ask someone what works best. I mean, when we’re out deliberately hunting or digging graves, you should still wear jeans, but if we’re out at the bar and accidentally get kidnapped, it shouldn’t be a big deal for you to be in a skirt."

"Wait, I can wear dresses? You don’t have a problem with that?"

"Once you’re used to it and I won’t die because you tripped on your hem, it’s fine. Your hair won’t be too much of a problem I presume, unless you want to grow it longer, in which case, you might want to get some basic hair ties or learn to braid it or get clips, I don’t know. Whatever you’ve done to your…boobs, we need to make sure the shape and weight distribution doesn’t throw your aim off with some of the weapons. Guns probably aren’t too much of a problems. The bows might be, and I’d like to see you run through some exercises with the shuriken and the machete."

"You—you—you—" Sam appears to be stuck.

"Nails can be painted, but not in neon colors or glow in the dark. The first is trashy, the second not ideal for a job that takes place primarily in the dark. You are not going to wear heels. Unless you’re seducing someone."

"Sedu—what?"

"Good you’re back. I figure, if you’re appealing bait, we can divide and conquer and hunt more efficiently. Plus, I know you can kick ass, and half the civilians we’ve had to use as bait were about as bad ass as a hamster."

"You trust me to keep hunting with you. You’re not going to tell Dad. Who are you and what have you done with my brother?"

"Just looking out for my little br—sister. C’mon, Sammy. Dad’s first rule was ‘Keep Sammy happy’. I’m just following the rules."

"1, you don’t follow any rules. 2, that wasn’t even what he said. 3," Sam launches him—herself at Dean, tackling him into the bed, "you’re the best big brother." Sam’s voice seems to get a little wobbly on the last few words from where Sam’s mouth is squished against Dean’s chest.

"If you cry on me and get eyeliner on this shirt, you’re washing it," Dean says, but he wraps his arms around Sam anyway. When Sam’s fingers stop digging into Dean’s back, Dean says into Sam’s hair, "Go on and clean up."

When Sam steps out off the bathroom, face clean, Dean lifts up the edge of his comforter in invitation. Sam crawls in and tucks herself into her big brother’s arms. It’s just the way it was when they were little.

Just before they fall asleep, Sam asks sleepily, “Who’d you call? If’s no’ Dad?”

"You remember Rhonda Hurley?"

"Kinda. Remember you moping over her."

"Yeah, I found her again a few years ago, took off after you left for a solo road trip. It was kinda shitty overall, but it was good to see her. We’ve kept in touch since then."

"Why call her?"

"Technically she was born Ron, not Rhonda." Sam gasps a little, though it rapidly turns into a yawn. "Figured she’d not only kick my ass into gear, but also make sure I knew everything I needed to keep you safe. She said you could call her any time you wanted to talk. She’s a good friend, Sammy."

"You’re a good brother."

"I try, Sasquatch."


	2. The One You Love The Best

Sam’s still standing in the alleyway, dripping blood and whatever the fuck was in the puddle. Her hair is matted with the sludge and her favorite skirt is shredded along with her right thigh. She knew Dean probably wasn’t that far behind, and the vampire was definitely gone, so she had time to lean uncomfortably against the wall and just breathe. 

There’s a soft noise like a concentrated breeze and she turns to see a man there in the twilight dimness. She brings her knife up again; the half cold iron and half pure silver blade will injure most things. The man neither jumps back nor advances, he merely raises his hands to show he’s not holding anything. Honestly, that means jack shit because he just appeared out of nowhere. Magic can kill someone without any fancy weapons. Heck, last time she died it was a simple knife to the back.

"What," Sam coughs(apparently that vamp held her throat tighter than she thought), "do you want?"

The man dodges the question, simply saying, “You ought to be more careful when you walk home, my dear.”

"I am not your dear!" Sam snarls the best she can.

The man walks forward with a knowing look in his eyes. “I wouldn’t want you to get hurt. You’re too cute to die.”

"Don’t touch me!" 

"Fine." The man waves his hand and soft waves of light, bright but not blinding settle around Sam’s head and shoulders before drifting downward and disappearing.

Sam reaches up to find her hair cleaned and loosely plaited into one braid. “What did you do?”

"Just tidied up. You’re quite fastidious, and I figure regurgitated blood is hell to get out of hair as long as yours."

"Why are you doing this?"

"I like you, Sam Winchester."

The man steps right into Sam’s space and reaches up—curious how short he seems when previously he was a serious threat—sealing the cut still seeping from Sam’s shoulder.

Hell, the guy only comes up to Sam’s shoulder.  _Wait._  Sam swings up with the knife, tucks it under the man’s chin. “How do you know my name and what did you just do?”

"I’m just fixing you up. I know everything about you. And I’m sure I’ll learn more." The man’s grip tightens slightly(too much already) on Sam’s shoulder so Sam hilts her knife in his arm.

The man merely glances to the side before laughing lightly. “Oh sweetheart, you  _wound_  me. Get it?” He flicks the blade away with a small gesture. 

"What are you playing at?" Sam is terrified. She’s alone, her blade tossed somewhere behind this thing and she’s pressed against a wall.

"Easy, easy," the man urges, to no avail. Sam slams her fist into his face. It hurts like hell, like his face is made from marble. The man raises his hand and Sam is sure he’s going to backhand her, but all he does is gently tuck a long strand of her bangs behind her ear and ease the throbbing of her purpling cheekbone. His hand slides down, still trailing tinsel-like light streamers, brushing over her hip briefly. 

Sam turns her head away. “Don’t.” It wouldn’t be the first time someone’s tried, though it would be the first time she couldn’t do anything.

"Oh, love, I wouldn’t. Just want to make sure your leg’s alright." And for once, that’s not a pick-up line. He even somehow knits the skirt back together, the box pleats almost perfectly realigned. "There. Turn just a bit." He pushes her sideways, too much strength for his size, and tugs a little on her braid to straighten it. "Go on, Dean’s waiting." He shoves her towards the alley entrance where Dean is just rounding the corner. 

When she turns back, the man is gone.

——————

Back at the motel, when she’s changing for bed, she sees there’s a yellowish ribbon cinched around the end of the braid. Sam tugs it free to find something written on it. She has to spread it on the bathroom counter to see what it is:  _Gabriel_  in thin golden thread. It goes up in flames and Sam practically throws it into the sink, where it dissolves into glitter before vanishing completely. Whatever the fuck Gabriel is, it’s got an issue with being a show off.

—————

Weeks later, the Winchesters are in a bar. Nothing really unusual there. Nothing is even unusual when Dean picks up some girl with more boob jobs than brain cells who giggles at anything he says. Sam opts to walk back rather than share the car with the two. 

She passes a small park and decides to wait there. Dean’ll appreciate the privacy. There’s a swing set and after Sam checks that no one is watching (what parent would bring their children to a park at two am she doesn’t know but it’s better to be safe) she runs to the swings. She settles into the one in the middle, surprised that the chains don’t dig into her hips. She’s wearing her skinny jeans, boots and a belted plaid tunic, so even at this hour, it’s warm enough under the stars. At first she just sways back a little, but in no time at all she’s pushing of properly(if she closes her eyes it’s like flying). When she reaches the apex, she lets go, flipping to land in a crouch. She stands to the peculiar sound of applause.

The man, Gabriel, is leaning back on a nearby bench, legs thrown wide. He grins. He doesn’t seem to have any inclination to move. “Very nice. Good to see you all in one piece, pearl of my heart.”

Sam snorts. “I am not the pearl of your heart.”

"Ah, that’s where you’re wrong." He stands then, one hand on his heart, the other arm thrown wide as he declaims, ‘The brightness of her cheek would shame those stars/As daylight doth a lamp; her eyes in heaven/Would through the airy region stream so bright.’"

Sam joins in for the end of the rhyme, “That birds would sing and think it were not night.”

"I helped him with that whole scene," the man says solemnly.

"Who, Shakespeare? How old are you? What are you?"

Gabriel saunters closer, hands tucked in his pockets. “I’m an angel, my prickly pinecone. And I  _pine_  for you.” He winks.

"One, that’s terrible. Two, Dean says angels don’t exist."

"And Dean-y Bean’s the expert?"

"I mean, he’s right. Pragmatically speaking, the only evidence is the Bible. Either you’re some monster or you don’t exist. Which brings me back to: what are you?" 

"I’m not a liar."

"Fine. Prove it."

"You’re going to have to hold my hand."

"What?!"

"I can’t show you without hurting you if you don’t hold my hand." When Sam still stands unconvinced, arms crossed skeptically, Gabriel sighs. "Look. We both know if I’d wanted to kill you, I’ve had ample opportunity. I don’t bite; at least, not without a safeword."

Sam clenches her jaw(despite the fact the she knows it ruins the look she’s going for) before holding her hand out with a distinctly unladylike look. It’s alright, she’s always been too awesome to be dainty.

Gabriel takes off his dark gloves and tucks them under one arm before he carefully takes Sam’s hand. It’s oddly comfortable and though her hand dwarfs his, his grip is firm and sure.

The world fades to black, then Sam’s soaring up thousands of feet, her only anchor the heat of Gabriel’s palm. Floating there in this negative of the world, she’s face to face(s) with a towering entity. It’s wings flare out, surrounding her. She is an ant beneath its glowing might, not high enough to brush the hem of it’s robe nor loud enough to catch its ear.

Gabriel releases her slowly. The weight of the world comes crashing down and everything she believed falls apart. “Angels are real. I prayed and someone out there maybe actually heard. Oh my God. I stabbed an angel. I STABBED AN ANGEL. I’m going to hell. The demon blood in my veins isn’t enough, no, I had to stab an angel. Oh fuck. Gabriel. The archangel. I stabbed an archangel. Is there a special level of hell for that?”

Gabriel steps in then, catching one of Sam’s wildly gesticulating hands. “You’re not going to hell, Miss Winchester. You are not tainted by the demon blood.”

Sam turns to the angel, who’s speaking so gently and drops to her knees right there in the tanbark. “I stabbed you. How do I even begin to atone for that?”

Gabriel’s voice gets absolutely peculiar and fiercely determined. “Stand up. Get up! Don’t you dare treat me like I deserve veneration. You’ve done more in the past two decades for humanity than I’ve done in two millennia. Your soul is so bright…”

Sam stands slowly. “It can’t be.”

Gabriel shakes his head. “When I showed you my true form, didn’t you see your soul?”

"No." 

"Then you were looking in the wrong direction," Gabriel insists firmly. "Look."

Again, everything twists around and inverts itself. Sam feel Gabriel guiding her, turning her away from his stark, radiant brilliance. Her soul stands tall, pulsing with warm light. Her voice sounds disembodied when she asks, “That’s me?”

His voice drifts back with an affirmative. 

When she comes back to earth, he’s just watching her quietly, having seemingly forgotten that he’s still holding her hand.

"You’re beautiful, Sam."

She takes her hand back like she’s been burnt. “If you’re an angel…you know I wasn’t born like,” she gestures vaguely, “this.”

"Humans still have hang-ups about this?" Gabriel frowns slightly. "I assure you, I don’t give a shit about gender." He looks at her with soft eyes, and a slight smile. "I’m just a firm believer in love. And I’ve loved you from the moment you began to exist." 

————————-

_seven years later_

Sam does her morning prayers diligently. ‘Oh Gabriel who art probably in the kitchen, do not eat all the poptarts, take all the hot water for a three hour bath or feed the dog anything with sugar. Amen.”

By the time she makes it down to the kitchen, it’s unfortunately evident that Gabriel has conveniently ignored at least two of the requests. There are two empty boxes of poptarts in the recycling bin and their Jack Russell terrier is bouncing around like he has springs instead of legs.

"Gabe, you know you’re the one who has to deal with him all day. Do not let him eat my comfy sweatpants."

"Hey, good morning, sleeping beauty. Ooh, first question of the day. What’s your opinion on somnophilia? Because the way the sun comes in in the mornings and shines on your muscles and flowing locks does things to me. I ache for your love, apple pie of my eye."

"Still comparing me to food? And we can discuss that when I get back." Gabriel notes gleefully that she doesn’t seem…uninterested.

Gabe grabs her just as she slips on her second stiletto and pulls her into a kiss, leaving faint red marks on his mouth. “Stilettos today?”

"I have a pair of rookies to train. If I can kick their ass in six inch stilettos, they lose their cocky attitude faster. I don’t have time today for kids thinking they can take a wendigo with no issue."

Gabriel looks his wife over. Bright, matte red lipstick, hair in a braided bun, and a neat black leather jacket on top of stretchy, durable pants. “You look amazing. Frankly, a little too amazing. Is there any way you could just stay in today?”

"Gabe," Sam laughs, "I’ll be home soon, okay. I know you have to finish that translation for Dean."

"I don’t know why he doesn’t ask Castiel."

"Don’t pressure them," Sam says as she slips out the door.

"If Cas moves any slower I’ll have to cryogenically freeze Dean to make things work," Gabriel calls after her. He can hear her laughing even as she shuts the door. She has faith in their respective brothers.

Gabriel does not. He hurries into the library to begin his work. He has a translation to horribly botch. Maybe then Dean will learn who to ask for help.

Gabriel starts penning a list of innuendos in Enochian that’ll make Castiel blush. The sooner he finishes, the sooner he can text Sam.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Note: I do not have personal experience with any of this. I do not want to offend ANYONE. If I’ve made mistakes, please tell me so I can correct them. Internet research is no substitute for actual life experience, and this was done primarily as an exercise in rewriting something that made me sad, not as my magnum opus. Ask nicely and I’ll change just about anything.


End file.
